


Come Live in the Country (With Me, My Darling)

by KannaOphelia



Series: 31 First Kisses: Good Omens [17]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a bookseller only in theory, But the feelings are still there somewhere, Canon - Book, Crowley says "Gosh", First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love will always find a way, M/M, Mutual Pining, No matter how hard he tries to be cool, Oblivious Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temporary Amnesia, The bloke from the adult bookstore next door, They can't actually remember falling in love, True Love's Kiss, crowley is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Aziraphale's  brows were drawn in confusion. They were pale and beautiful. The wrinkles at the corner of his frowning mouth were beautiful. His double chin was beautiful. His bloody prissy hands like  some camp Oxford queen were beautiful. Crowley could write a poem to Aziraphale's ankles, thick and stable in their heather marle socks."Gosh, I like your body," Crowley said hysterically. "Just as much as the old one. Good love-handles.""Are you feeling quite well?""No. I've gone mad. Come and live in the country with me. You can read all day and I'll tempt the village ladies into short-changing on the White Elephant."******After their conversation was interrupted by Death, Crowley and Aziraphale's minds were wiped of certain salient events from the last eleven years. But shadows remain. And Crowley is possessed by the conviction that the bookshop is a very dangerous place for the angel to be, and some worrying nightmares about fire.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 First Kisses: Good Omens [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559824
Comments: 55
Kudos: 176
Collections: An Angel and a Demon Walked into a Bookshop: Ineffable Husbands Stories





	Come Live in the Country (With Me, My Darling)

**Author's Note:**

> "If we could understand, we wouldn't be us. Because it's all—all—"  
> INEFFABLE, said the figure feeding the ducks.  
> "Yeah. Right. Thanks."  
> They watched the tall stranger carefully dispose of the empty bag in a litter bin, and stalk away across the grass. Then Crowley shook his head.  
> "What was I saying?" he said.  
> "Don't know," said Aziraphale. "Nothing very important, I think."

**A few days after Armageddon didn't happen**

Crowley had been hanging around the bookshop more often lately, bothering Aziraphale for attention and encouraging him to close early and have a few drinks. Not that Aziraphale required much encouragement to close his shop, as a general rule. But he was unused to having a demon almost constantly under his feet, getting in the way of his "work", whether that referred to his actual angelic duties or rare manuscript acquisition.

He was even more unused to not minding.

Of course Crowley was a sympathetic soul, or at least sympathetic being, in his way. No one else had really been there all along. No one else _understood._ And the Arrangement, as well as a certain mutual connection that was best not thought about too much, meant they had spent substantial time together over the centuries. This constant craving for Aziraphale's society was, the angel felt, new, especially as Crowley usually hung around griping. Aziraphale should exorcise him, he supposed, with a few strong hints.

He didn't want to. The reasons that crept into his brain were quite unaccountable and better not examined too hard. There was no reason why the delicate tendons in an inner wrist left exposed when Crowley discarded his jacket should lead to wanting to have him around. No reason why a familar lisp should seem remarkably pleasant, or a lock of stylishly dishevelled black hair falling on a bronze forehead should be something that made Aziraphale's well-kept fingers itch to stroke it back. Of course, Crowley was made to be pleasant to look upon, fine boned and graceful and dangerous as a snake. Aziraphale, he resignedly admitted when he thought about it, was built more on the lines of a well-fed ox, strong and dependable and not particularly decorative. Both well built for their respective purposes, if in fact God and not Satan had been responsible for Crowley's corporation. It had never seemed tactful to ask.

Oh, well, these were old thoughts, any sharp edges to them worn off over centuries, and best to not worry too much and leave it in the Almighty's hands. Even demons were His creations, after all, and Aziraphale supposed there was an ineffable reason that he found the double curve of this particular demon's Cupid's bow so pleasant to look upon, or the way he draped himself over chairs. Oxen and serpents coexisted just fine, as long as the oxen were careful not to step on the snakes.

Crowley was gliding through the shelves now, and Aziraphale imagined he could hear the silken rustle of scales as he moved. It was probably just Crowley's very expensive vicuña wool trousers, or what would have been very expensive trousers if Crowley actually paid for them. Aziraphale suspected that no llama-like creatures had been involved in their production, and no human tailor could achieve that exact fit.

"When did you change your collection focus?" Crowley called over his shoulder. "Don't remember you being into kids' books."

There was a strange feeling at the side of Aziraphale's head. He shook it to clear it. "Well, you know, one gets tired of the same old thing," he said vaguely. "It's been centuries since there's been an interesting typographical error in Bibles. Technology has improved, I suppose."

"And they're a lot less trusting of strange old men like you." Crowley leaned against a bookshelf, flicking open an invaluable first edition of _The Phoenix and the Carpet_ and flipping through it. He smiled at an elegant lady in a power suit, holding the arm of a child having Quality Time, while her frazzled nanny lurked in the background. The lady took in Crowley's watered silk tie and general air of nefarious opulence, and smiled back, moving a little closer. There was a large diamond cluster and a wedding ring on her hand, Aziraphale noted with an internal sigh. Really, it was too irritating of Crowley to bring his work into the bookshop, he told himself, repressing a little stab of jealousy. It wasn't as if Crowley was _attracted_ to his targets.

"Charming shop, isn't it?" the lady said.

Crowley looked around. Aziraphale's shop was dusty, crowded damp, dark and strange smelling. He took effort and pride in making it so.

"Oh, the book shop next door is much more enticing," Crowley said, his voice a deep, rich purr. "Perhaps I could show you around?" She gave him a slow, delighted smile. "They have an _excellent_ range of Norwegian fisting porno mags. Perhaps we could peruse them together."

The lady gave him a look of deep horror, dropped the books she was holding, grabbed her child and the nanny, and flounced out of the shop.

"Sorry," said Crowley. "Think I lost you a customer. Quite a few books she was intending to buy, too."

"What a pity," Aziraphale said, and a new sunbeam lit its way through the streaky window, bathing him with light. "Pick those up, there's a dear fellow. Really, the way some people treat books is not worth thinking about."

Crowley gathered up the pile of books, adding to the top a first edition copy of Richmal Crompton's _William the Good_ , excellent dust jacket, no foxing. " _Good_ ," he said, amused, running his thumb over a picture of a child at a card table.1 "More like the Antichrist—"

The books crashed to the floor once more, and before Aziraphale could even protest the second outrage, he had slender arms crushing his back and sunglasses pressing somewhat uncomfortably into his neck.

"Whatever's the matter, darling?" He patted Crowley's back a little awkwardly, having no idea how best to respond to a demon who was suddenly shaking in his arms like they were the middle of a blizzard. Crowley's hair smelled like apples, probably something to do with his styling mousse and not Eden.

"Don't know. Thought—for a moment—nothing. Goose walked over my grave." Crowley detached himself, still trembling, and his face was more wan than usual, despite blotchy red on his cheeks.

"We don't have graves." Aziraphale kept his worry tamped down, his mind running over all the things that could have caused Crowley to react like that. He couldn't think of _any_. He had seen Crowley anxious and gloomy when he had an unsatisfactory report to hand in, but usually Crowley took things as they came. This terrified creature was new.

"Maybe someone sneezed nearby and was blessed." Crowley's grin wasn't very convincing. "Things to do. I need to take off, anyway. Evil never rests, you know me."

"If you say so."

"See you—I'll be in touch tomorrow, all right?"

"Of course."

The door banged behind Crowley.

* * *

Crowley, cast on an uncomfortable white leather couch, decided he hated his flat. He'd never liked it, really. The holy water in the safe was always _there_ , a creepy tickle on the edge of his consciousness, destruction lurking. A reminder that no matter how convenient it was to tell himself otherwise, he and Aziraphale were not so much bending the rules of their respective sides as twisting them into knots. That was why he was still pushing down a sense of panic and loss.

Maybe redecorating would help. Bit of colour and sparkle. He'd seen a gold train set in a catalogue, forty feet of track and jewel encrusted carriages. Might brighten the place up a bit. Add some fairy lights.

 _Darling._ Well, Aziraphale had called him _dear_ before, and Crowley was sure he himself had gone through a stage of calling everyone _darling_ a few decades ago. An angel's instinct was to give comfort and succour, even to lost souls. Didn't really mean anything. Any more than suddenly hugging him did. But replacing that warm, precise voice saying _darling_ made his queasy feeling retreat a bit. Wherever the sense of disaster was coming from, it wasn't Aziraphale.

Something on the edge of his consciousness nagged, and Crowley resisted the temptation, much as resisting temptation went against his fundamental nature, to pick up the phone. Hear Aziraphale's voice. Be sure he was all right.

As if anything could happen to an angel. Bad things happened to other people. Not Crowley and Aziraphale. They were always all right.

What was _darling_ anyway? A mere diminutive of _dear_.

The anxiety didn't go away. And Crowley was superstitious. he had to be. he was a demon.

Every day he had been more sure something was up, and that it was up with Aziraphale. Crowley didn't like it. No matter how it looked at it, the most likely source of any harm for Aziraphale was _him_ , and he had no desire to cause danger to the one being who had been a solid confidante and ally for his entire existence on this blasted, gorgeous planet. He would dislike it if --

_He couldn't bear it. Eternity stretched in front of him, and there was no Aziraphale, no warm steady presence, just roaring flames or the coldness of heaven. The war was looming, and he was alone. He couldn't bear it._

Of course he could bear it. Aziraphale was the closest thing to a friend he had, but that didn't mean he was soppy about him or anything. They might be running into each other more often this century, but that was no excuse for hanging around in the bookshop every day, the aching sense of loss he felt while away. No, he was making a nuisance of himself, and Aziraphale was just too kind, in his snippy way, to tell him so. Go around _hugging_ him like that, and he risked threatening the Arrangement.

Crowley would have a nap, clear his head, and then sort out what the problem was. Might have to call in some favours from Down There, and he needed to be on his feet if he didn't want to end up compromising himself and having to write _I must not fraternise with the Enemy_ six million times in carnivorous slug acid. On his arm.

Crowley went into the main bedroom, wherein was the one comfortable piece of furniture he owned, with sheets as sparkling white as fresh snow, and curled up under the covers. Let himself relax a little, the scales creep back. Sleep, that was it. Deep, refreshing, relaxing sleep.

Ten minutes later he was proving that a 1926 Bentley, if well maintained, could drive two hundred miles an hour.

He took the steps two at a time. "You didn't die," he said.

Aziraphale turned from a customer who had somehow made it to the antique cash register, and regretted his rashness the moment Aziraphale looked at him over his half-moon spectacles. "Not that I've noticed."

"Get out of the bookshop. Now," Crowley rasped.

The man at the counter dropped his books and fled. "Not you!" Crowley snapped at his retreating shadow. " _You._ Aziraphale. Out. Now." He realised he was pointing accusingly, and his hand shook. "It burned. All of it. You were in it. I was _alone_. Really fucking alone."

"Please don't use that language in my shop. My dear serpent, the shop is in perfectly good condition. Do you really think I would let those nice gentlemen from organised crime harm my _books_?"

"You need to leave the shop. Come on. I'll buy a pile in Arundel or somewhere. A place big enough for you to keep the books. Only don't burn to death."

"Discorporation," Aziraphale amended. "I have no intention of burning, either literally or metaphorically." His brows were drawn in confusion. They were pale and beautiful. The wrinkles at the corner of his frowning mouth were beautiful. His double chin was beautiful. His bloody prissy hands like some camp Oxford queen were beautiful. Crowley could write a poem to Aziraphale's ankles, thick and stable in their heather marle socks.

"Gosh, I like your body," Crowley said hysterically. "Just as much as the old one. Good love-handles."

"Are you feeling quite well?"

"No. I've gone mad. Come and live in the country with me. You can read all day and I'll tempt the village ladies into short-changing on the White Elephant." He grasped Aziraphale's arm and pulled him to the door.

"Where are we _going_?"

"Estate agent. Told you. If you don't like Arundel we could move to Seaford, camped there once with the Romans, expect it's been done up a bit since then. Sea air will do you good." The door banged behind them.

"'Ullo, Ezra." The man from the _Come Inside Books_ was leaning in his door frame, looking interested at the way Crowley's hand was gripping Aziraphale's portly elbow. "What are you and your special friend up to, then?"

"This is Anthony Crowley," Aziraphale said, politely avoiding the question of their relationship. "Crowley, John."

"Hi, John. Tried to send some business your way yesterday. Sorry that we don't have time to chat. We're going to buy a cottage."

"Never thought you were the cottaging type, Ezra." John winked lasciviously at them.2

"Learn something every day," Crowley said manically. "Come along, darling, don't mind if I call you darling, do you? You started it, after all."

"I've cottaged before," protested Aziraphale. "Many times."

"I'm not even going to try to unpack what you mean by that. Come _on_."

Aziraphale gave Crowley one of the penetrating looks that made it crystal clear that behind all that fussy benevolence was a razor sharp, and very old, intelligence. He got into the Bentley and slid the roof shut in a brief moment of consideration. After all, Aziraphale didn't have his scarf or gloves and Crowley didn't want to lose him, however temporarily, to pneumonia. Damn it--bless it--

He produced a black and red tartan shawl from the ether and tried to wrap it casually around Aziraphale's shoulders. He was awfully afraid the gesture looked tender instead.

"Do you want to tell me what's actually wrong?" Aziraphale adjusted the shawl around himself.

"Don't know. Don't want you in the shop. We can get movers for your books." Crowley leaned his head against the steering wheel. "You must think I'm ridiculous."

"Frequently. But I take you seriously about this. If you truly wish to move to the country together, I'm not unwilling. I never have been. It only strikes me as a rather dull life for you there."

"You know me. I can make my own fun." Crowley let the words sink in. "You mean, you're willing to live with me? You've _thought_ about it?"

"Rather often," said Aziraphale, and when Crowley turned his head, he saw two spots of pink on his rounded cheeks. "I've thought it might be pleasant. It merely didn't seem to be something you'd be interested in."

"Oh. Mm. Right. Urgh," Crowley said eloquently. "Let's--let's go buy a house."

* * *

Buying a house urgently was surprisingly easy when you had unlimited funds and both angelic and demonic powers prodding an estate agent to provide you with the best choices. It was neither Arundel or Seaford, in the end, but a modest "cottage" with stables and garden house and an orangery, going for a song, the agent said, due to being off the major train lines and motorways. Crowley assured her that he didn't mind driving. And besides, he said, with sudden conviction, they were retired.

"Wish I could retire at your age," she said.

"Oh, I'm older than I look."

"Oh, don't worry about me judging." She watched Aziraphale wandering to the hedge and looking out over the fields, the salty air stirring hair, looking solid and heavy enough to be a gentleman farmer. He would look wonderful in country tweed and cable knit jumpers. Or maybe a fisherman's knit and shabby corduroy trousers. Reading by the fire, a fine Scotch whiskey in hand, or spiced mead. Contented and warm and _safe_. No matter what Crowley had to do to ensure it. "Always thought these May-December romances were sweet. How did you meet?"

"Worked for rival businesses. Found it hard to stay enemies, though." He smiled despite himself. "More like June-December, though. And he's the summer."

The agent looked like she was going to swoon, and Crowley blushed at himself. Really, he was a terrible demon.

"I'll contact the owners," she said.

* * *

They stayed at a nice hotel the next couple of nights, and Aziraphale found himself driver around to estate sales and antique stores to pick out furniture. Really, Crowley was bizarrely solicitous, even if he did have a tendency to pick out things with snake and apple motifs.

"You're sure about this?" he asked once, when Crowley returned to their room from arranging the delivery of a four poster bed.

"You had any missions from Heaven lately?" Crowley asked abruptly, avoiding the question.

"No. Nothing."

"Hell's leaving me alone too. I think we're on our own. I don't even know how, or why, but..." Crowley shook his head. "There's gaps in my memory, don't you feel the same? Yes, I'm sure. If I'm looking at eternity unemployed, I want to spend it with you." He paused and stared hard into the middle distance, the surfaces of his glasses reflecting only Aziraphale's own image. "You could have smited me, in the first days, and you were kind instead. I'm keeping you safe. Besides, you're the only one who can keep up with my drinking or beat me at chess."

Aziraphale felt too many things to say. All he could manage was, "My very dear."

Crowley gave him a crooked half smile. "Let's get lunch."

They got the keys to the cottage that afternoon, and went down together. They stood on the threshold, looking inside at the half-furnished hall, light filtering through the diamond window panes. It felt significant, somehow. Almost like...

"Welcome to our home," Crowley said. " _our_ home. Gosh. Like we were--like we just--" He pushed his glasses to the top of his head and looked at Aziraphale with eyes that were terrified and fiercely happy all at once.

" _Yes_ ", said Aziraphale, who had presided over a hundred thousand human marriages, placed his hands on the demon's narrow shoulders, and kissed him.

he was afraid for a moment that he had misjudged and Crowley, sensitive prickly thing that he was, would be offended, or mock him. But Crowley's lips moved against him, he made some kind of inarticulate noise, and then he was kissing ardently in response, arms sliding around Aziraphale's waist and pulling him close, cleaving against him, holding and kissing him as if he was starving, one leg hooking around the back of Aziraphale's calves as if to trap him close.

And the memories flooded back. They had been doing... _something_... spending more time together than ever before. Driving, talking, meeting. Concerts and museums and ducks. Crowley with him always, dark and frustrating and so, so dear, so desirable, so perfectly attuned to him despite their differences, so beloved...

"Gosh," Aziraphale said, and Crowley laughed, with tears in his golden eyes.

"Me too," he said. "Me too, my _darling_ angel. With all my heart. Now close the bloody door."

Aziraphale did.

noun [ U ] UK slang /ˈkɑː.t̬ɪ.dʒɪŋ/ sexual activity between men in places such as public toilets

* * *

  1. Something like [This copy](https://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=30004615297&cm_sp=SEARCHREC-_-WIDGET-L-_-BDP-H&searchurl=an%3Drichmal%2Bcrompton%26dj%3Don%26fe%3Don%26sortby%3D17). William and the Outlaws were the inspiration for Adam and Them. Also they are great and you should read them. ↩

  2. **cottaging** noun [ U ] UK slang /ˈkɑː.t̬ɪ.dʒɪŋ/ sexual activity between men in places such as public toilets ↩




**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me in the comments, or kudos are appreciated! You guys make my day.


End file.
